


and my heart is on that ship out in mid-ocean

by phantomlistener



Category: Shetland (TV)
Genre: F/F, Scottish Folklore & Mythology, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27476935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomlistener/pseuds/phantomlistener
Summary: They say that once a year, every Midsummer, the selkies of the North Atlantic gather on the shores of Shetland and lure unwitting islanders to their doom.Rhona doesn't much hold with fairytales.
Relationships: Rhona Kelly/Original Female Character, past Rhona Kelly/Phyllis Brennan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	and my heart is on that ship out in mid-ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



There’s a Midsummer storm on Shetland the night Phyllis is sentenced to prison.

The wind comes in off the sea with enough force to rattle the slates on the roof of Rhona’s house, whistling in through the letterbox, through the back window that still needs repairing, brings with it the sharp electric tang of salt fresh from the deepening waves, and Rhona tosses in bed, the sea’s angry lullaby prickling under her skin. Rain is pelting at the windows – not the fine rain that soaks unnoticed to the bone or the soft mist that regularly engulfs the moorland, but hard, heavy raindrops that batter the glass, demanding admission.

She hadn’t been in court, had stayed safely tucked away on Mainland, sheltered from the death knell of her relationship by miles of open water.

( _Coward_ , whispers her heart, even as her head tells her it was the wisest decision.)

The rain is as restless as she is and she knows she won't be sleeping any time soon, gets out of bed with a resigned sigh to open the curtains. The windowpanes stream with rain on the outside, the insides beaded with condensation and fogged with the warmth of her breath as she leans close to the glass, and Rhona has lived long enough on Shetland to know that it’s a foolish whim, dangerous even, but she’s tired of safety. She’s tired of being sensible. She wants to rage with the ocean, stand too close to the water’s edge and let the salt spray lash her skin, the breaking waves reach for her with icy fingers. Wants to wash away the stifling, knowing looks of sympathy she gets from anyone with half an ear for gossip with the hard edge of danger that is Shetland’s shore when the Cailleachan come calling.

She’s dressed and on the beach before she realises what she’s doing, the rain hitting her exposed skin with pinprick stings, numbing her nose and cheeks. Her hair is a tangled mess of salt and water, blowing uncomfortably around her face. Lightning flashes, illuminates a shoreline scattered with gnarled driftwood and sea-smoothed rocks, tossed up from the depths where they had lain sleeping, and the thunder that follows reverberates through to her bones.

It’s _exhilarating_.

The wind screams with the voice she doesn’t have, and she closes her eyes against the rain, her thin jumper and jeans soaked through and clammy against her skin.

The thunder roars again, loud enough to split open the earth.

She opens her eyes.

There’s a woman standing in the water, smiling, arms outstretched towards her—

 _Come away_ says the woman, her words cutting through the rain and the wind, and her hair is black and slick like seaweed, curling and coiling around her shoulders and down over her breasts.

 _Come_ she repeats, the curve of her belly smooth as sea-polished glass.

 _Rhona_ she whispers, and her voice is the wind, caressing Rhona’s cheeks and tugging at her hand, pulling her closer to the rugged shore where the waves break jaggedly on black rocks.

Something uncertain bubbles in her veins, plays like fire just beneath her skin, an itch planted deep in her chest, and the siren call of the water, writhing like a living thing beneath the turbulent sky, sets up home in her heart.

She thinks of Phyllis, of the damage of the easy path.

She turns away.

*

The next year, Midsummer is warm, a soft breeze beneath a mackerel sky. The sea hums in Rhona’s bones.

She sits on the shore with a glass of wine as the sun falls towards the horizon, though it won’t fully set for months, closes her eyes and listens to the rumbling back-and-forth of the waves, the screeching of the gulls high above. The sea-scent intensifies, curling round her like an embrace.

Someone sits down next to her.

She opens her eyes.

Recognition hits her with all the force of a winter squall. The woman beside her has a teasing smile, thick brown hair that streams down her back like long strands of seaweed floating in the water, eyes dark as the rocks at night, and not a stitch of clothing upon her. A crab crawls out of her hair, scuttles down her naked back. “It wasn’t a dream, then,” Rhona says, relieved without quite knowing why. “Good to know I worried for my sanity for naught.”

“I’m real enough.” The veins seem to flow like water under her bare skin, and where the weak sunlight reflects on her body it’s wet, rippling, alive with the warmth in the air and the rhythm of the swell. “I waited a year to see you again.”

They know her by name at the library in Lerwick now, courtesy of rainy Sunday afternoons spent devouring the Folklore section. “Once a year, then. I thought as much.”

“You ignored my call.” There’s respect in her pebble-dark eyes, and her voice is soft. Intrigued. “There’s not many as manage that.”

“Years of practice,” Rhona says drily. “I’ve learned to avoid _unsuitable women_.”

“Aye, heartbreak is a fine defence against selkies.”

Rhona nods. “Hearts mend,” she offers noncommittally, brushes her hand against the woman’s where it rests wet on the blanket next to her.

She winds her fingers through Rhona’s, and it's like trailing her hand in the sea on a summer’s day. “That they do.”

Rhona isn’t a fanciful woman, has always liked the comforting certainty of absolutes, but the sea has flowed in her veins for a full year now, tugged her gaze out towards it in the evenings, woken her with dreams of cool salt water caresses in the mornings, and it has all been leading to this, to the pink sky and the salt and the gentle bubbling rush of the incoming tide.

The woman kisses her and she tastes like the sea, her mouth slick with salt.

“Come,” says Rhona, and holds on to her hand, leads her up the path to her house.

“Come,” she says again, freely offering the choice, and the woman follows her up the stairs, and into her bed.

She whispers a wave, screams a storm, touches Rhona with sea-oiled fingertips that leave glistening trails of drying salt over her body, and Rhona kisses her back, presses her mouth to the curve of her neck, the softness of her belly, the crease of her thigh, tastes the sea and the salt and the sharp electricity between her legs.

The next morning she’s gone. There’s sand on Rhona’s sheets, the air in her bedroom light and fresh as if it's blown in straight from the open ocean.

She doesn’t visit again. But sometimes a wave whispers her voice, sometimes a storm screams her pleasure, and every now and then on Midsummer when Rhona watches the waves crash over the rocks to the top of the beach, the spray falls to reveal a shimmering woman brushing dark seaweed across her shoulders, and they smile at each other across the shore.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Heart Like A Wheel_ , with a particular recommendation for the [June Tabor version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pxwSXGpsRBk). kimaracretak, you mentioned selkie!Rhona, and this isn't quite that, but I hope you like it all the same!


End file.
